By Ariel Root
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment. I didn’t dare break eye contact. She was sitting across the table from me, a little hunched in her seat, her hair falling forwards limiting her peripherals. But she was looking right at me. Her words were coming right at me. Her index and thumb wrapped tight, she would periodically tap the microphone with her other three fingers, fidgeting. Maybe her looking right at me, not breaking contact, was her way to build confidence. To forget there were 57 other people in the room. Even when my throat got tight, and my mouth felt dry, I didn’t dare break eye contact. She divulged her most personal experiences of being away from home. Being at, what felt like, a modern day residential school. Being bullied, exiled, and humiliated by peers. By supposed support systems. By the school she left her home community to attend for a better education, and a better future. She’s still just a kid. A well-spoken, First Nations, brave-ass kid.
At the end of November 2017, I flew home from a youth forum in Thunder Bay. I was completely exhausted. Mentally, and emotionally exhausted. Together between the Indigenous Youth Futures Partnership and the Sioux Lookout First Nations Health Authority, we started a Youth Working Group in Summer 2017. A working group of students from Sioux Lookout’s Pelican Falls First Nation high school and Queen Elizabeth high school all met remotely with students from Thunder Bay’s Dennis Franklin Cromarty high school, collaborating on small projects to promote positive health and well-being. I was one of five youth mentors. Each of us a student ourselves. We worked weekly with a small group from one of the schools. Knowing that we wanted to give the students an opportunity to share their summer research projects and reflections to a wider audience. Hoping that we might be able to help build a plan of action.
We wanted them to share their experiences and challenges in transitioning to high school, exploring means to promote overall student success and wellness. We know that of the total Canadian Indigenous-identity population, 29% have no educational certificate, diploma, or degree. We know that of that population, 22.7% hold a high school diploma as their highest level of educational attainment, and that only 48.2% hold some sort of postsecondary certificate, diploma, or degree. What we didn’t know was why. If we wanted to help build a plan of action for educational success, we needed to know, specifically, the challenges for youth transitioning to high school. We needed to hear it.
Having previously identified priorities for success including (1) continuity of community supports, (2) lateral violence, (3) racism and safe environments, (4) variation in students’ skills, and (5) mental health and choosing life, the students were split into five working groups. Each group worked with one of us youth mentors, including myself, to refine and prepare a presentation for their theme. We had seven weeks to conceptualize their topic, understand their experiences, summarize their stories, and construct a way to articulate it all. The forum was bringing together researchers, community organization members, and health, education and youth service workers. And yet, only the youth working group members were slotted to present.
Each youth group sat at a round table with their mentor in the middle of a Lakehead University Hall, surrounded by other tables of adults—the listeners. We spent the first day, taking turns listening to each working group share their ideas and experiences related to their topic. Some shared pictures illustrating life at their school. Some share input from their peers. Some took turns, passing the microphone, back and forth, around and around, sharing their first thought, their after thoughts, and their additional thoughts. After each group shared, the other students had opportunities to hold the mic, and build on or off of ideas raised by their peers. The listeners could do only that—listen.
After a group presented, and the youth were asked to add their comments, I would try prompting them—“have you ever experienced something similar?” Or when I heard them muttering to each other, agreeing throughout a presentation, I’d ask “did you want to share that in the mic?” At first, they almost always said no. Getting a panicked look on their face, their lips would tighten, and they’d shake their head. Continue their fidgeting. But at one point, she muttered how his one point was so true—school does feel, at times, like those residential schools. “Do you want to say that? Into the mic?” I asked.
The fingers on her one hand strumming the mic, while the other hand kept pushing up her glasses. But staring straight down at the table, she started to talk. “What that boy said, earlier, about residential school, it’s true. Sometimes my school really does feel like one” she started. Each time after that, she added more and more to her opportunity at open mic. Other working group members started to contribute, feeling each others’ support, and building off of their confidence.
When my group presented, I had no idea what to expect. Weekly meetings leading up to the presentation did not instill confidence. Despite different weekly assignments, or in-meeting brainstorming activities, I wasn’t sure we had even established their ideas or interpretations of “mental health” or “choosing life”. They were a working group of few words. We took some pictures of the school, and they had talked to some peers, but we didn’t put together a presentation, or practice a take-away message, let alone speaking notes or key points. Right before it was their turn, they said they wanted to stand up, in front of everyone.
Nervously fidgeting with their stance, looking at each other, or down at the ground, sometimes over at me, they did amazing. They projected the pictures of their school, illustrating what life at school looks like. They had anonymously polled their peers with cue cards, and summarized the most commonly identified challenges, enjoyments, and wishes for change. They were articulate, and they were powerful. They must have heard themselves talking, felt themselves presenting, and seen themselves with the entire room’s attention. They must have gained confidence. After their presentation, they had thoughts or comments to add to every discussion raised. They started looking for, and asking for the mic. At times, they shared intimate, emotional, or personal memories to illustrate their points. And in those times, not a single whisper, keyboard tap, or fidgeting movement was heard throughout the entire room. The working group, the youth, had the full attention of every single person in that room.
At the end of the first day, everyone was exhausted. Emotions had run from high to low to high. Personal anecdotes had gone to dark, painful places. Inequalities were identified, and injustices were highlighted. The day was completely, and totally, emotionally draining. The second day was the opportunity from people in the listening group to ask questions, and pitch potential options for students. Working group energy levels were definitely lower than the first day, and the relaxed format of day two was its perfect complement.
The forum ended with thank you’s, acknowledgements of strength and courage, a powerful drum, and an elder’s prayer. Before I knew it, the room was empty, and I was waiting for a taxi to the airport. I sat on the plane, with a pile of work to do, and a reflection to write, but had no words to share with the blinking cursor on a blank screen. I was still trying to process the forum.
At first, feelings of astonishment—these students met weekly for months, came far, and shared intimate feelings with listeners, building confidence, and oozing empowerment; could I ever have done the same? Then, feelings of guilt—these students met weekly for months, came from far, and showed true honesty to listeners; what did I give to them? Last, feelings of responsibility—these students met weekly for months, came far, and relived painful memories for listeners—I can’t just accept what was said and walk away. The youth working group gave every forum attendee a unique, unedited, and memorable experience. They are the knowledge-holders. They opened up, and trusted in the power and capabilities of the listeners. Now, the responsibility is ours, the facilitators, the mentors, the researchers, community organization members, the health, education and youth service workers—the listeners. We are the power-holders. Somehow, we need to integrate their input, and give something back. We owe it to them. We have to. We must. And I will.
Author Ariel Root is currently in Sioux Lookout, ON working as a Youth Facilitator for Sioux Lookout First Nations Health Authority. She is a doctoral candidate in the School of Public Policy and Administration program at Carleton University, focusing on Indigenous youth program sustainability in the Sioux Lookout region. Ariel works with the Indigenous Youth Futures Partnership, and was a youth mentor for the Youth Working Group, helping one of the groups prepare for the Thunder Bay youth conference in November 2017.
Attributions
Patrick Keating: drum photos